


those things we love

by darkangel0410



Series: heatstroke [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 11:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel0410/pseuds/darkangel0410
Summary: Charlie pulls a shirt and some boxers on before he wanders out into the kitchen; Jack’s seen him naked plenty of times, but he’d rather be clothed if Jack’s bad mood manifests in him cooking something on the stove and gesturing wildly. Grease burns were theworstand he’d rather not have them anywhere near his dick, one close call was enough.





	those things we love

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy some NTDP players as a pop-country cover band!

Charlie wakes up to the sound of the front door slamming shut and a mouthful of Brandon’s hair; he spits out the hair, sits up and even half-asleep he isn't surprised when Brandon sprawls out in the little bit of space that’s now available.

He rubs his hand over his mouth and squints at the clock that’s balanced haphazardly on the pile of dvds in the corner of the room; it’s just after eight in the morning, which means it’s Jack in the kitchen messing around with the cabinets: Auston wouldn’t be up this early unless he was doing the walk of shame home from someone’s place and no one else slept over last night.

Charlie pulls a shirt and some boxers on before he wanders out into the kitchen; Jack’s seen him naked plenty of times, but he’d rather be clothed if Jack’s bad mood manifests in him cooking something on the stove and gesturing wildly. Grease burns were the _worst_ and he’d rather not have them anywhere near his dick, one close call was enough.

He walks down the hallway into the living room and pauses when he sees Jack in the kitchen, hunched over the sink and staring into it like it has whatever answer he’s searching for. There’s a couple pans out on the counter next to him, and eggs and bacon on the little bit of counter space left, but Jack seems like he lost the will to cook somewhere in between and it makes Charlie seriously consider turning around and waking up Auston to deal with him because he’s the one who’s best at helping Jack when he’s this upset.

“I know you’re there, dude,” Jack says without turning around, “come sit down or go back in by Monte.” 

He doesn’t sound mad, just exhausted, and that more than anything spurs Charlie into moving; he’ll just have to fake it and do his best. If worst comes to worst, it only takes about twenty seconds to get from the kitchen to Auston’s room at a full sprint.

“How’d you know it was me?” Charlie asks easily, walking the rest of the way into the kitchen and grabbing a can of coke from their mostly empty fridge before sprawling in the only chair that wasn’t piled in clothes and other junk. 

“Please,” Jack scoffs and Charlie can hear the smile in his voice, even if he hasn’t looked at him yet. “Auston and Brandon both sleep like the dead. If that earthquake didn’t wake them, the front door slamming won’t even make them roll over. Sorry about that,” he adds, almost too soft for Charlie to hear.

Charlie chugs the rest of his soda and tosses it in the direction of the garbage in the far corner of the room; neither one of them are surprised when it hits the floor two feet in front of the can and bounces to a stop in front of the fridge. “No big,” he tells him, shrugging easily, “I knew if you were slamming stuff you were pissed about something and that matters more to me than sleeping late.”

There’s silence for the next few minutes while Charlie waits patiently for Jack to decide if he wants to talk about whatever’s bothering him. He might not be Auston but even Charlie knew not to push Jack when he got like this.

“I went to my parent’s house for breakfast,” Jack finally says, his voice carefully empty; he’s still not looking at Charlie, but now Charlie notices the way the muscles in his forearms are bunched, how he’s gripping the edge of the sink so hard that his hands are white.

“Ah,” Charlie says for lack of anything else, because it makes sense now, but he’s still not sure what to say to make Jack feel better. 

Out of all of them, Jack was probably the closest to actually making it to the show; he played seriously until he was almost seventeen and was in Ann Arbor when he finally quit. Charlie had already stopped playing by then, but he knew the basics of what happened: Jack getting into a brawl mid-practice with one of the guys on the team, coming out to everyone on the ice when they wanted to know what the fight had been over. He quit not even a week later, transferred back to Boston for the last few months of the school year and never played anything more serious than an occasional pick-up game after that.

His relationship with his parents had been strained ever since, especially with his dad, and the periodic attempts to bridge the gap between them never ended well. Charlie thinks sometimes it would be easier in the long run if his parents just stayed distant from him, only calling to wish him a happy birthday or whatever once in a while. At least then Jack would know exactly where he stood with them, instead of this kind of weird in between place he’s been for the past six years.

Charlie’s not exactly sure what ends up being said the times Jack sees his parents, but he guesses ‘I can’t believe you’d rather be in some cover band than play hockey’ is probably the least of everything that gets thrown at Jack.

“Fuck them,” Charlie finally tells him, at a loss for what else to say, and in the end, the truth is usually the best way to go. “They can fuck off if they're going to be assholes.”

Jack snorts, but his shoulders relax some and he finally turns around to look at Charlie; he taps his fingers against the sink edge before he says, “Want to jam? Dylan left his guitar here last night.”

Charlie grins at him, always down for music and even if he wasn't, he would do a lot to get Jack’s mind off of his parents. Any of them would. “Hell, yeah. Want me to go get your bass from your room, we can wake up the rest of the floor.”

Jack smirks then, some of his normal humor returning; he's not all the way there yet, but Charlie considers it a job well done, a good enough stopgap until Auston is up and can work his magic. “Nah, I’ll just play the guitar. Gotta save some energy for tonight,” he adds as he puts the eggs and bacon back in the fridge. 

He doesn't bother putting the pans away, just strides over and snags Dylan’s guitar from where it's leaning against the wall before sitting on the arm of the couch; he strums aimlessly for a few seconds before settling into the familiar chords of ‘Drunk On You’. 

“Cottonwood fallin’ like snow in July, sunset, riverside, four wheel drive,” Charlie sings, his voice softer than it was when they were on-stage; he snags one of the throw pillows Auston’s mom insisted on giving them and settles onto the floor, pillow under his head, and goes easily into the next part, “and a tail light circle. Roll down the windows, turn it on up, pour a little Crown in a Dixie cup. Get the party started.”

Jack picks up on the chorus with him, and it's almost as good as being on stage: going from song to song slow and easy, eventually listening to Auston and Brandon waking up and bitching to each other about everything; the front door opening and closing, Zach cheerfully telling them three neighbors had complained to them on their way back in from a food run; Noah and Dylan yawning and handing out breakfast sandwiches and Dylan taking the guitar off of Jack so he could eat. Auston singing when Charlie stops to eat his own food.

It’s not a bad start to the day in the end.

*

It’s the last Saturday in April, which means it’s the last time they play at _Johnnies_ until October and the place is packed; they almost always draw good crowds, especially for a cover band, and their last performance for the next six months was almost guaranteed to make sure there was barely any standing room.

Jack and Zach are both working until eight tonight, getting some last tips before they leave on Monday; Noah’s in the back, borrowing his brother’s office to finalize their schedule for the next month and setting up tentative dates for after that. Cole’s helping man the bar until Chris and John get in and Charlie can see Dylan and Brandon weaving in between people in the crowd, helping clean the tables and putting tips they find in the jar on the shelf behind the bar, next to the good whiskey.

Charlie drains the rest of his beer, and drops the bottle into the can next to where the merch table’s tucked into the corner between the bathrooms and the other exit outside; they’ve already sold out the rest of the CDs they had left, along with all of the medium shirts and most of the larges, but that doesn’t slow down the steady stream of people who stop to buy something or even just to talk, wishing them luck on their usual summer trek up and down the east coast.

He spends the next hour or so smiling and laughing with people, signing autographs whenever anyone asks, handing over shirts and posters for cash; it used to be the hardest part for him, making small talk with strangers, but it’s second nature for Charlie now, and it’s a small price to pay to be able to sing and play in the band with his boys, to be able to travel and spend time with the people who matter the most to him.

Noah comes out from the office to relieve Charlie so he can go start to bring the equipment in from the van and brings some beer with him; there’s a lull, that quiet hour in between the work and night crowd, and Noah’s able to sort through the money in the cash box, easily counting it and then wrapping a rubber band around a huge chunk of it before sliding it into a manila envelope with ‘ _Heatstroke_ ’ scrolled across it in Noah’s sloppy handwriting. “Here, ask Cole to put that in the safe when you’re going past, please. He’s back there now,” Noah adds, handing it to Charlie.

“Did someone come in early?” Charlie asks, idly drinking his beer and looking around the room; the usual weekend wait staff were busing tables and talking, yelling over their shoulders to ask Jack or Zach to bring out extra rags to wipe up some spills. 

“They should be here soon,” Noah tells him absently just as Chris and John walk in, nodding to them as they go into the back; Charlie waves back half-heartedly, not wanting to spill his beer or drop the money, but Noah doesn't even seem to notice, too busy smiling slowly at Hilary and then outright grinning when she smirks back at him before she turns to help Amanda and Ryan clean up the tables closest to them. “Gonna be a good crowd tonight,” he adds finally focusing his attention back on Charlie, all the emotion people assumed he didn’t have all over his face and in his voice while they were talking about anything to do with the band. 

Noah looks easy-going, and he is about most things, but he didn’t fuck around when it came to Heatstroke, and more than one person had taken his good looks and carefree attitude to mean he didn’t know what he was doing, and paid for it before the band even sang their first song. 

There’s no one else Charlie would rather have in charge of everything.

*

The bar’s loud, people singing along and yelling; it makes Charlie grin widely, the manic energy from the crowd making him feel almost invincible up here on the makeshift stage in the back of his favorite bar. A quick look over his shoulder tells him everyone else is feeling it, too: Auston’s dumping water over his hair and shoulders before putting his usual bandana back on, keeping it out of his face and he’s not smiling, really, but when he’s done he looks over the crowd eagerly, twirling his drumstick in his fingers while he waits; Jack and Dylan quietly ribbing each other before going back to their usual positions, Dylan winks at him and Jack grins wildly and Charlie’s pretty sure this is as good as it gets.

“This would be where we tell you to go buy some of our shit, but it’s all gone,” Dylan tells them, laughing with everyone else when Jack cheerfully yells, “thanks, assholes,” from behind him.

“This is the last song until October, so enjoy, and thanks for being the best place to play in Boston,” Charlie says, finishing Dylan’s sentence with the ease of long practice. 

“Feel free to sing along if you know the words,” Dylan adds slyly as if most of the crowd didn’t already know what song they were going to sing.

It’s silent for a second or two, then Dylan’s playing familiar chords and the crowd yells raucously, clapping and whistling along with the beat. 

“Well, I like my chicken fried, a cold beer on a Saturday night,” Charlie sings, laughing when everyone shouts ‘Saturday night’ along with him, “a pair of jeans that fit just right and the radio on. 

“I was raised underneath the shade of a Georgia pine and that’s home, you know. Sweet tea, pecan pie and homemade wine, where the peaches grow.”

The cheer from the crowd almost sounds better than any goal horn he’s ever heard.

*

None of them mean for the band to end up what it does. Hockey was the original plan, but life’s a bitch and it’s greatest joy is to fuck with everyone. The band isn’t hockey, won’t ever take the place of it, but he still gets to see his boys most days and he still gets to do something he loves. They make enough money that none of them are still living at home, with enough left after rent for beer and pizza a couple times a month. 

All in all, Charlie will take it.

**Author's Note:**

> I think maybe one other person wanted to read this besides me, but I hope everyone else enjoys this! Lots of cameos by other American players in this: Hilary Knight, Amanda Kessel, Ryan Fitzgerald and Chris Kreider just to name a few. 
> 
> I didn't tag for it because it's only briefly alluded to but Hilary Knight/Noah Hanifan fuckbuddies are 100% a thing in this and if someone could go ahead and write me lots of that, I'd appreciate it.


End file.
